


would I were, and quiet buried, underneath the silent mould!

by oncewewerezombies



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Alternia-Focused, Alternian Empire, Alternian Revolution, Assassination, Background Relationships, Blood and Gore, Cult of the Mirthful Messiahs, Gen, References to Canon, Revolution, Subjuggulators, The Summoner's Rebellion, What if?, a successful coup d'etat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 19:40:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14409216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncewewerezombies/pseuds/oncewewerezombies
Summary: Even a priest-king of the Mirthful Messiahs can't keep back the tide of revolution.





	would I were, and quiet buried, underneath the silent mould!

You are old when he comes.

So old. Frail in a way you had never, in your prime of nights, thought you would reach. Or had ever thought possible for a troll of your blood and your calling. You are old, your brothers and sisters are scattered and afraid, the sea washes violet to the beaches and are silent underneath except for beasts. You sit in the cathedral of mirth, in what was once the seat of your power, alone on your throne. Alone, in the dark. 

Not quite alone, if you're to be honest. Still, some lurk in the shadows, hoping perhaps that the shadow of your memory can protect them, per-fucking-haps. You had sent your faithful forth, you had laden them up with words and relic and sacred things and you have _sent them forth_. Hoping that some, maybe, might find a new place to hide, some place to cower where once they had strode like the lords of creation. Some place to nurture some flicker of a hellacious flame, keep it hidden. Keep it safe. 

A dispensation had been made, for all and sundry to wipe their faces clean and go bare. To hide the better, to seem as _one_ with the blasphemous masses. There've been martyrs. Of course there motherfucking are, and as much as you honour your pragmatic brethren and sistren who'd wiped their faces and gone quiet so as to raise the faith up in another, better time, to suffer persecution amongst the unmirthful, the blasphemous, the _lowblooded_ \- you have to honour those of you who leapt into the whirlwind and screamed the place down in a blaze of hellacious fury, laughing on their way to ringside fucking seats.

For all the honour you've done to the Messiahs Twain, all the work you've done...you don't know rightly where you're gonna sit when your ticket gets punched. Ring side, or in some place worse than the pits. And you can hear footsteps coming up the hall, heavy. The formerly mirthful halls, once full of the rumble and call of your brothers and sisters, the call and blessed answer of whoop whoop, hilariotious chatter and the sounds of living trolls. Secure, in what they were and in what they _knew_ to be true. The world is ending. The universe is ash. And all any motherfucker should do in the face of that is _LAUGH_.

Your world has ended.

Yet here you _motherfucking are_ , and you are doing anything but laughing.

You flip your huskphone in your hand, the remnants of a last conversation with _her_ on it. Stare at the dark, seeing the shapes of your empty throne room, your trophies of weapon and bone from conquered enemies on the wall, your clubs leant up against the side of the throne. Useless. Just like you, you slackjawed motherfucker.

CC: buoy you oughtta get down pier gonna be some fun gonna curbstomp some lowbloods into the undertow

Some fun.

Some fun, some fun, some moooootherfucking fun had been had. That was for motherfucking sure.

CC: fin  
CC: enjoy your stuuuupid fuckin festival reef creeper  
CC: don't need your clubs anyhow

You can see her in your mind's ocular, throwing her head back so her hair swings, glittering in gold and arrogantly sure of her own superiority. Her right to rule, her right to _own every motherfucker_ as she looked at the world through her personal vison-correctors. The rims of them sparkling diamond, witchybitch from head to frondstub and every inch an Empress worthy of being feared.

CC: KURLOZ IT'S ALL GON-E WRONG  
CC: FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUUUUUCK FUCK FUCK  
CC: KURLOZ!  
CC: WH-ER-E AR-E YOU WH-EN I FUCKING N-E-ED YOU!!!!!  
CC: KURLOZ!!!

Where had you motherfucking been? How could you have seen that a MIRACLE would happen, and for the lowbloods at motherfucking that? How could a motherfucker have known that you'd all be motherfucking betrayed? Betrayed again. You should have slaughtered that motherfucking ponybitch when you'd had the chance but you'd stayed your frond, out of recognition of his sweeps of loyal fucking service. What harm could he do? He was motherfucking broken and cast aside, _cast out_ from your regard.

Not as broken as you would have hoped.

You'd known as soon as you'd seen that spider-eyed bitch on a battlefield next to the cavalreaper just who'd done the work for her new grasping frond and her spinny little sightnugget, set shining above the curve of her cheek and the blaze of her shiteating provocative grin. He's got a certain look to his shit. A proficiency in metal you ain't seen no other troll come close and fuck, he has to be dead by now. Ain't that the way it is. You'd been old when he'd been young, and you are even older now and so motherfucking _tired_ and he probably gone before you. Blue and cold to the motherfucking grave and you doubt that a bitch mourned the passing of her roboginator all the while she functions with the ease his skill had brought to her former infirmity. All the while you hear your pusher beat inside your chest, and you can feel the wheels of Time spinning faster, faster. Faster.

You hadn't never had no thought that _she_ would go before you though.

Ain't you just a fool, who's seen a joke that you didn't have no expectation on.

Footsteps getting closer.

Ain't no motherfucker who could have seen he'd have a dragon. You knew that beast too - you should have seen it slaughtered when the troll who'd once been the dragon's grub had swung by her own _motherfucking_ noose, hoisted by lowbloods held enthralled by the gamblignant's web. You'd slaughtered the stadiumfull of them, but it hadn't brought her back. Hadn't changed what had happened. And then you'd found out she'd been a traitor, too. The Irons you'd held in your palm you'd held so _tight_ that blood had run down your grasperstubs.

In her clothes, right next to her cardiopump. She'd held it there, she'd held it close to her skin. She'd been a traitor, and you had never known. You been wearing fool's bells so long y'ain't even hear those motherfuckers jinglejangling around your neck. Oh, she'd got you but _good_ \- and even now, you kinda miss a sharp-edged lawbitch and her wicked wicked ways. Fool, fool, fool. Ain't no fool like an old fool, ain't that what they say? 

"Cavalreaper."

"Clown."

There's light behind him as he stands there, colour coming through those gossamer wings like tinted picture windows. Pretty. You admire it for a moment as he stands there, you let your terrors seep out to see who else is standing with him but no. Motherfucker has come alone. He's done you both that dignity. You stand, bring your aching bones to a height and you gaze him down. If he'd brought the spiderbitch, you woulda made a motherfucker regret it. He's here to put you down - you know it. He knows it. It's a weight between the both of you, and it don't feel nothing like when you'd put the old Grand Highblood down into her grave as a rite of your own passage. There ain't no way a new Grand Highblood is going to rise with the likes of him once you're bleeding out - you don't know what is to come. Ain't no word of any motherfucking this in any of the sacred books, no breath of it in all the jokes styled prophecy that your kin have claim to. You just don't know, but you can feel the world ending around you, like you can feel your husk dying with each beat of your pusher in your chest. You breathe out slow, careful, and show no pain, show no motherfucking fear. You make him approach you, come closer in the gloom to your throne, your power. 

You down and out, you're flickering like a mad motherfucking candle, but you ain't all gone yet. Through the fortress, you can feel lowblood minds, lowblood HEATHEN motherfuckers touching with BLASPHEMOUS graspers on shit they weren't worthy to lay a glimmer of a glance on, yet alone a touch. Here and there, they trigger some joketrap and they die, they die. You can feel them swell with panic, then flash out. Your subjuggulators, your remaining faithful, they struggle, they ache and they die, die, die. You can't protect them now, they're your family, kin, and they're dying all around you in places where they should be safe. You can feel death sweeping through, and oh there. There's that bitch, peeking and prying at your thinkpan. At the cavalreaper. Ain't that motherfucking something? You smack her out and down, toss her out and bowl her into a spin, tie her back into her own webs and leave her screaming futile and raging in the mindscape.

This ain't no place for the likes of her, no coward is welcome here.

_BITCH._

There ain't no more words to say, no more discussions to be had. He gives you the motherfucking courtesy of not offering you terms you wouldn't take, and comes straight for you with his lance. You stiffen your palsied knees with all their sores and aches, and ready your clubs. When he comes to you, you dodge and spin, clasp his lance between side and corner-frond, and vault backwards; you were one hell of a terrobatic in your nights. Now your skin and frame protest the use you put your body to, don't come down to finish the curl and vaultjump as smooth as you would have twenty sweeps ago. Ten sweeps ago.

Motherfuck, you are so fucking _old_.

You spin once you land on your feet near to as graceful as you'd have been in your prime, and bring your clubs up to bring them down on his ungrateful motherfucking pan. He pushes you back, you throw your weight into the clubs crossed blockwise against his lance. He kicks your ankle, you fall back, you turn and circle and bring your clubs to break down on his wings. It's a dance alright - you both know all the motherfuckin steps and you just waiting for the other to make a mistake, a fuck up, and you can feel your kin dying all around you. He's focused, he's keen, he wants your MOTHERFUCKING RIGHTEOUS blood on his lance, he wants your pusher on his spear. 

And you're so tired.

There's no bedrock of ocean to push yourself back to, no spiteful murmur and roil of a tempestuous imperial fishta lurking in the backspace corners of your mind. The sea's gone quiet. You can't hear the waves no motherfucking more. And you can feel each death, each gasp, each pained cry, like needles in every single one of your bones. Skewering your frame with regret and reproach - _you should have protected them_. This is your church, your MOTHERFUCKING FAMILY THAT'S SPILLING BLOOD AND LIFE all behind you. Around you. You grit your fangs and try to take off one of the cavalreaper's motherfucking horns with a swing upwards.

He beats you backwards to your throne, the room empty but for your commingled gasps and grunts, the clash of bone on metal. You bring your club down hard, and it.

It.

It fucking _breaks_ in half in your frond, some hidden flaw under the splashes of blood and previous slaughter brought full circle to ruin. You recover, and jab the broken haft forward at his eye. You don't see the way he brings a dagger up close and deadly, until it's sliding quiet and serpent-like between your ribs. Deep into your thorax, on the way to reaching things painful and essential. Your eyes widen up wiggler-bright, and you take a breath. It hurts, you cough, you spew noble purple down your chin, spit it onto his face, those bone-hollowed toggles of his vest. He's brought you to sweating and wheezing, young and unburdened as he is - oh, ain't he about to learn all about burdens. Ain't nothing like the weight of a crown. Brings you all the way to your motherfucking knees, just looks like you're standing tall to those on their faces in the dirt.

The thought makes you laugh to choking on it, and you grab his wrist with your grasping frondstubs, pull him in closer and drive the dagger deeper to your cardiopump. He looks almost afraid of you; and here you are, ain't even cheating in the slightest. Not a whisper of the righteous terror you could bring to one of his blood do you allow. This just you. This just him.

"You've won, you motherfucking rogue, you _thief_ ," you cough-gasp and spit, spew purple onto his horrified expression, that noble gaze banished into stupefaction as you tighten your hand on his wrist and don't let a motherfucking rebel pull back. Rebel no more; he's in charge now. You wonder if he realises yet what a double-mouthed meowbeast he's grabbed hold of by the tail. You wonder sore if he does realise just what the FUCK he's put halter and bridle to, what it means to rule. How is he going to deal with trolls acting like motherfucking trolls? His rebellion of gutterblood and scum might be on top now but how was they planning to keep it? "I hope you choke on it - I knew that mutant redblood and believe you me, _Decurion Nitram_ , you ain't in no way fit to kiss his motherfucking shit, let alone his feet."

There's darkness sweeping at you now as he pushes you back, and you stumble back onto your throne. The edge of the seat butts up to your knees, and you fold, you sprawl. Dagger throbbing agony through your side, and he lifts his lance. You open your arms and beckon a come at me bro (come on, come on, COME ON COME ON COME ON) and he does. Grits his teeth, sets his jaw in a way the biogarroters and histoterrians are gonna wish they'd seen to immortalise for ages to come - and he comes right at you.

He's always been a good soldier. When he lifts the lance to his shoulder and drives it through you, he takes you square in the chest and pins you through to the back of your throne behind. Teeth gritted, lowblood roundness on display as he grunts as he dispatches you most workman-fucking-like. God DAMN, it hurts though. You ain't reached that blissful edge of bloodloss yet. Where it's all soft and rounded warm on the edges, you just got pain that sets you to shaking as you grab at the deadly long length of steel-tipped wood and you groan loud and pained. Shit god damn. It motherfucking HURTS. 

"Motherfucker, ain't you gonna have fun now," you gurgle through a gashful of blood and you can feel yourself dying in moments. God damn, you almost wish you were gonna be there when he gets onto the mundane shit like sales tax - rebellion's all fine and good, the best of ideals, but all ideals ain't nothing when it comes to actual running shit. Your money's on a new rebellion to overthrow these motherfucking incompetents by the second dark season because everybody's hungry. Don't matter. Not to you anymore anyways, ain't gonna be any of your concern, bro. All that shit is gonna be his and his spiderbitch's worry from here on out. Your hands tighten around the body of the lance and your body seizes up on you, and you let go with one last laugh, his puzzled frightened gaze following you down as it all goes dark at the final curtain. 

Finis. 

Exeunt finale one mirthful motherfucker, pursued by nothing except his own regrets.


End file.
